Masterpiece theatre
by FanSlewFantasy
Summary: Italy paints Germany's picture. Human names used. M to be safe. Implied sex, Yaoi themes. Don't like Don't read. Seriously. Reposted from old account, Reviews are welcome and sincerely loved. xoxox


Reposted from my old account. GerIta fluff.  
>thank you to everyone who had favourited and reviewed this story before.<br>WARNINGS: this story contains yaoi/shounen ai themes. if you dont like yaoi, then kindly click the back button at the top of your browser now. if you are stupid enough to read on despite this warning, i request that you DO NOT review/flame on the basis of content. it is intolerant and unintelligent of you to do so, and i am frankly sick of it. get a life. I am considerate toward you by supplying this warning, kindly return that decency.

...

Ropes of sunlight poured through the window, illuminating motes of dust that hung lazily on undisturbed air. The soft sound of opera from a stereo perched haphazardly atop a disorganized bookshelf cajoled him to hum along. Moving crescendos spilling and pooling into delicate andantes, every note quietly mimicked by shapely little lips absentmindedly.

"Italia?"

"Mmm? Don't move please."

"Uh… right, sorry." I straightened my back and furrowed my brow. It was hot in my uniform, I could feel myself sweating, the cloth beneath my arms darkening and sticking to my torso. It was fortunate he couldn't see my back, the evening heat was searing, and I knew the spread of perspiration there would deter even the most focused workers from their tasks. That being said, Feliciano certainly paid extreme and uncharacteristic attention to his current occupation. We had been here for many hours already, and he hadn't mentioned pasta once. A record. Would a little bit of dark cloth bother him that much? Maybe not. But still, I was unsure I wanted to find out.

"How much longer will you be? I'm kind of… uncomfortable."

"Why? It's not that hot." Not taking his eyes off the canvas in front of him, he reached for a tube of paint on the easel tray and dunked his brush in the jar of murky water. A stray strand of dark auburn escaped the messy pony he wore, clinging to the thin film of sweat on his own face, but he didn't seem to notice. Whatever he was busy with had captivated him. Curiosity itched the back of my neck.

"Easy for you to say. You aren't wearing pants."

A tiny twitch of his mouth, he sighed and let himself slump a little on his stool. The loose blue shirt he wore complimented his rich olive skin well, it covered the neat black shorties he favoured over trousers, but drew excess attention to slender crossed legs. Content brown eyes were torn from the painting; they lingered on my face for a moment, before rolling in an exaggerated sort of manner.

"Okay, I guess we can finish up for tonight. Want to have a look?"

"Yes, of course." I put down the helmet I was holding and edged around a stack of old manuscripts and journals. Italy sure had a lot of junk in his attic. The kind of junk that makes a person want to sit for hours and snoop. He giggled and lent over, turning off the stereo which had fallen silent as the track changed.

"It's not finished yet, we will get back to it tomorrow morning, okay?"

"Okay." Without thinking about it, I placed my hand on his shoulder and surveyed at the product of a days work. He looked up at me in surprise, but smiled, wiping his paint covered hands on an old rag.

"What do you think?"

"It's… it's very…" I blushed, unable to look at the picture for long. Maybe it hadn't been such a great idea to get Feli to paint my portrait. "I… its… well, um, its just…"

"Don't you like it?" neat eyebrows rose and his eyes registered hurt. I kicked myself internally.

"No! It's beautiful. It's just…"

I always had trouble articulating my thoughts, when it came to this man.

How could I tell him that the simple expressive application of his brushstrokes made the back of my neck prickle? How could I admit that even the basic lines and shading he had managed to get done today were possibly the most fantastic thing I've ever seen? Breathtaking and enchanting, almost alive and capturing everything. Blonde hair, blue eyes. The strength in my shoulders was simplistic yet honest, the elaborate authority of military garb gave off the exact vibe I had desired. Yes, this physical likeness was imposing and true to life. But I can't help but wish he had left it at that.

How he manages to dissect my very soul and place it on canvas is a mystery I will never understand. Seeing this image of myself I knew that it was definitely NOT the kind of picture I wanted hanging in my parliament, not because it was unflattering (it was not) or because it was inaccurate (once again, definitely not), but because it was much, much to _me_ for anyone, even my boss, to see. It was the mood of the picture, the aura he had rendered me with, the emotion he had captured that drew attention to my eyes, and the thoughts lingering in them. I could clearly see what I had been thinking painted delicately by his hand, reflections of my ponderings (all of them Italy focused) glazed my eyes and lightened the humor of the painting from strong independent nation to a human and very much in love young man gazing longingly at something just beyond the frame. Careful shadows at the corner of my lips lent suggestive, obscure warmth to my expression; the kind of look no-one must know I am capable of. My hair was lit in an almost emotional way, a little messier than usual due to one or two simple brushstrokes, and the way he smoothed the lines of my neck and hands were much to intimate. As if after caressing them as a lover, he wanted to share that knowledge with the viewer.

"It's very… not impersonal."

"What do you mean?" perplexed, Feli turned back to the painting, fingertips brushing the expertly painted cloth of my uniform. "I just painted what I saw."

"Well, did you have to paint _exactly_ what you saw? Couldn't you have made me look a little less…" what was the word? Cute? Besotted? I settled for soppy. "_Soppy_?"

"But… you always look soppy."

"… I what?"

At first I thought I had misheard, but when wide, beautiful brown eyes turned to me and I felt myself blush, I understood much too clearly.

"You always look like that; I don't know how to paint you any different."

More than a little embarrassed, I studied the painting again. At least I looked attractive enough. I guess. And If you squinted at it the emotion was not so noticeable. I gave that a go, Italy frowned.

"What are you doing?"

"Hm? Uh… nothing. Don't worry."

"Is there something off with it?" he too tilted his head and peered at the picture. I shook my head and ruffled his hair.

"No, its perfect. Just… do you think you could paint another as well? One where I look less like how Italia sees me, and more how I would like my people to see me."

"I think everyone should see you like this, Ludwig. You look so handsome in uniform." He stretched happily and slid off his high seat, bare feet sinking into the thread of an old dusty carpet. "Ve, come down stairs now, I will make pasta for us both!"

"Mm. Okay. You go ahead. I'll be down in a moment, okay?"

"Yes, yes." He was already halfway down the rickety stairs. The call of pasta was a strong one; he was never so good at resisting its allure.

Shaking myself, trying to reorganize myself as a soldier, I challenged the painting again. I definitely shouldn't have gotten him to do this. Maybe some human painter, someone without his skill and delicacy, would have been more appropriate. Seeing my face rendered by his hand so well was… beginning to be a little unnerving.

I sat myself down in his stool, the seat was still warm, and I suddenly remembered my uniform, which was heavy and still far to hot. Unbuttoning the blazer, pulling off the shirt, I grunted in relief at the feel of air on my bare chest. I could smell myself, heavy and earthy, and I decided I would take a shower before I go downstairs for dinner.

How does he do it? How? I will never understand the boy, not ever. How a nation so terrifically bad at almost everything could be capable of making something so perfect. How someone with so little patience and such a short attention span can sit for hours, making tiny paint marks, in happy silence. It was incomprehensible. In a beautiful, heart racing way. The kind of incomprehensible I didn't want to understand. Ever.

Some things are just too good to question.

"Ve, Germany," he called ahead, the sound of hurried footsteps as he skipped back up to the attic made me flush. "I just thought of some- oh."

"Hm?" I lifted my head just in time to catch him peaking wide eyed over the railing of the stairs, still waist deep in the stairwell that sunk to the floor below.

"Uh, I just thought."'

"Of what?" I ruffled my hair and hopped off the stool, placing my uniform there before approaching him.

"There's a show on later tonight at the theatre… I just wondered if maybe you wanted to go. It's an opera."

The sun was sinking now, in the golden light that filled the warm space, the rich wood and dust and gorgeous homely antiquity that was Italy exuded a sweet, intoxicating scent. More-ish, cherished… his face in the light was angelic. Sweet and open, a little pink blush darkening his beautiful smooth cheeks. What did he have to blush about? Italy never blushed. The boy had no shame.

"That depends, have you done your training today?"

The darkening blush and a refusal to meet my eyes told me that no, he hadn't. I groaned.

"Italia…"

"Don't be mad Ludwig, I meant to I really did. It's just… I got distracted with a book. And then you asked me to do this painting and I kind of…"

"Forgot?"

"Maybe."

I clicked my tongue and jammed my hands in my pockets. "No then, we aren't going anywhere until you have trained."

"But Germany, its-"

"No."

"Oh come on. Please?"

"Not until you can do at least ten push ups. Ten. None of those girl push ups either, proper ones." I went to descend the stairs, but he was still standing there in the stairwell, gazing at me pleadingly.

"But its theatre, Ludwig! I used to be in a little theatre, when I was younger. Papa Rome taught me… in actually kind of good at it."

"And now I'm teaching you to fight like a man. I'm sure you can be good at that too, if you try harder." Lies, but he didn't need to know. "We can go to the theatre some other time, okay? Now let me past."

I took another step forward, expecting him to move out of my way now that we were standing so close, his face almost pressed against my bare chest. But his only response was a faint choking noise.

"Come on, Feliciano. Id like a shower before dinner."

"It's okay, you don't need one." His voice was tight and breathy. I frowned and looked down.

"Yeah I do, I've been sweating like a pig all day and-"

An adorable, almost pained face turned up to mine. Shaking hands rested on my chest, forced calm was obvious in every move he made.

"It's okay, Ludwig… you smell really good."

In disbelief I raised an arm and gave myself a sniff. Strong, bitter… not particularly wonderful at all, actually.

"Well, okay… whatever. Come on move so I can-"

He promptly raised himself on tiptoes and kissed my lips, effectively killing all ordered thought.

"… What was that for?" I was suddenly way, way too conscious of his hands on my bare chest, his leg bent forward slightly between my own. Sweat trickled down my neck and the small of my back, the smell of me seemed much, much more noticeable. He blinked. I found myself enchanted by his lips. His beautiful _lips_. Pink, parted slightly and wet with saliva. Delicious and vanilla looking, like heaven. My hand found its way to cradle his cheek. His skin was soft and velveteen, somewhat moist and radiant. His eyes fell shut and he kissed me again, leaning against me, stroking my chest and fingering a nipple discretely.

"You look amazing in this light." he murmured between short, wet kisses. The soft sound of lips slipping and pressing did strange things to me, no matter how often I heard it. His smell, spices and wine and clean earth, was tempting and overpowering. Slowly, he pulled away. I stroked his upper lip with my thumb.

"Okay…" My voice was cracky and unfamiliar. I cleared my throat and tried again. "Okay, we can go to the theatre tonight if you want."

"No, it's alright." His face pressed to the side of my neck, "I changed my mind. I'd rather stay here with you instead." Those hands crept down my body, wandering, finding my hips and rubbing, "If I'm going to finish the painting tomorrow, I'm going to need some inspiration tonight."

"… Okay."

Without warning then, he stepped back.

"Come down stairs now then, and we can finish up after dinner. We don't have any flour so we will have baked potatoes instead."

Italia had a short attention span, yes. It occurred to me again in that moment, the awkward feeling of semi arousal squirming uncomfortably at the base of my spine. But the thought of having him later tonight, fully focused, mapping me out with his touch as accurately as he painted me on canvas was one so much more captivating than any opera.

…_fin…_

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